The Honor of the Name eBook

So the weeks went by, and Martial was expecting to
be summoned before the Court of Assizes and condemned
under the name of May, when he was afforded an opportunity
to escape.

Too shrewd not to discern the trap that had been set
for him, he endured some moments of horrible hesitation
in the prison-van.

He decided to accept the risk, however, commending
himself to his lucky star.

And he decided wisely, for that same night he leaped
his own garden-wall, leaving, as a hostage, in the
hands of Lecoq, an escaped convict, Joseph Conturier
by name, whom he had picked up in a low drinking-saloon.

Warned by Mme. Milner, thanks to a blunder on
the part of Lecoq, Otto was awaiting his master.

In the twinkling of an eye Martial’s beard fell
under the razor; he plunged into the bath that was
awaiting him, and his clothing was burned.

And it was he who, during the search a few minutes
later, had the hardihood to call out:

“Otto, by all means allow these men to do their
duty.”

But he did not breathe freely until the agents of
police had departed.

“At last,” he exclaimed, “honor
is saved! We have outwitted Lecoq!”

He had just left the bath, and enveloped himself in
a robe de chambre, when Otto handed him a letter
from the duchess.

He hastily broke the seal and read:

“You are safe. You know all. I am
dying. Farewell. I loved you.”

With two bounds he reached his wife’s apartments.
The door was locked; he burst it open. Too late!

Mme. Blanche was dead—­poisoned, like
Marie-Anne; but she had procured a drug whose effect
was instantaneous; and extended upon her couch, clad
in her wonted apparel, her hands folded upon her breast,
she seemed only asleep.

A tear glittered in Martial’s eye.

“Poor, unhappy woman!” he murmured; “may
God forgive you as I forgive you—­you whose
crime has been so frightfully expiated here below!”

EPILOGUE

THE FIRST SUCCESS

Safe, in his own princely mansion, and surrounded
by an army of retainers, the Duc de Sairmeuse triumphantly
exclaimed:

“We have outwitted Lecoq.”

In this he was right.

But he thought himself forever beyond the reach of
the wily, keen-witted detective; and in this he was
wrong.

Lecoq was not the man to sit down with folded hands
and brood over the humiliation of his defeat.

Before he went to Father Tabaret, he was beginning
to recover from his stupor and despondency; and when
he left that experienced detective’s presence,
he had regained his courage, his command over his faculties,
and sufficient energy to move the world, if necessary.

“Well, my good man,” he remarked to Father
Absinthe, who was trotting along by his side, “you
have heard what the great Monsieur Tabaret said, did
you not? So you see I was right.”